


Bravery is Answering the Hard Questions

by coldfiredragon



Series: Because You Made Me Brave [4]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional confessions, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Starting Over, Twenty questions, ignores the season finale, part of my bravery series, post-Alice/Q 2.0, post-monster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-04 12:26:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18604501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldfiredragon/pseuds/coldfiredragon
Summary: At an all-night diner, Quentin and Eliot try to start over. Along the way, they end up playing 20 questions.  Some of them are easy, some are hard, but the best things in life come with challenges.





	Bravery is Answering the Hard Questions

**Author's Note:**

> The newest part of my bravery series. The story so far? Eliot made his love confession, then stepped aside when he found out about Alice and Quentin and their renewed romance. Fast forward six months and Q's relationship with Alice has self-destructed. 
> 
> Enjoy! This is equal parts fluff, crack, and angst.

Finding a late night place that serves food isn't all that hard, it's what to say once they've ordered and the adrenaline is starting to wane that leaves both of them staring at their hands. 

“You look great.” Quentin always was the braver of them, and this had been his idea. Eliot's not surprised that he finds words first. “I like the glasses.” Eliot pulls them free, and Quentin's face blurs a little, enough. He stares down at the frames. 

“They fit the new person I'm trying to be.” Eliot's deteriorating vision isn't bad enough to make him miss the smile that starts to spread across Quentin's face. Eliot rests his cheek against his fist as their waitress brings their drinks. Starting over had seemed so easy when they had been standing inches from one another at the bar. He blinks, then wipes at his eye and puts his glasses back. “How do we do this, Q? How do we just start over after everything?” 

“I think we just sit and talk, maybe?” Eliot laughs, they've always sucked at talking. 

“We suck at that.” He points out glibly. Quentin laughs, then reaches across the table. He only hesitates a second, a pause long enough for permission before resting it on the hand not propped against Eliot's cheek. 

“If we're starting over I don't know anything about the really handsome guy sitting across from me.” The words aren't as coy as Quentin probably wants them to be. His index finger traces a circle on the top of Eliot's hand.

“I'm an open book.” It's not a hundred percent true, but if it means salvaging the friendship and love of his life, Eliot finds himself willing to try just about anything. 

“So hard question first.” Eliot closes his eyes, silently steeling himself. 

“Ask away.” 

“Cat person or dog person?” Eliot's eyes fly open, and he laughs. He twists his hand to lace his fingers through Quentin's. 

“Cats.” 

“I don't think this is going to work.” Quentin's tone is teasing. 

“Maybe a dog, but it would have to be the right dog.” Eliot concedes. 

“Fair. Okay, next question. Umm... You work in a bar; what's your favorite drink?” 

“Cheap swill? No thank you. So I guess it's a toss-up between a good bottle of wine or a good cocktail. Depends on my mood. You?” 

“Probably a good bottle of wine.” Eliot smiles.

“I happen to have a lead on some outstanding wines; maybe if this goes somewhere, I can buy us a couple on the cheap.” 

“I'd like that.” 

“So.” If they are playing twenty questions, they have a long way to go. Eliot stirs the straw through his coke and sips it, leaving the hand laced with Quentin's right where it is. “You told me you just moved from Boston; where were you before?” 

“New York, I grew up in Brooklyn, but recently it felt like everything that would have kept me there was gone.” Quentin's fingers squeeze against his. The implied _'You were gone.'_ goes unvoiced. “My dad died last year, a lot happened. I clung to things that were bad for me because they were all I had left.” Quentin sniffs, and their eyes meet across the table. Eliot considers switching sides to sit with him, but it doesn't feel earned yet. 

“I'm sorry about your dad, Q. I wish I could have been here.” 

“You kinda were...” Quentin inhales a long breath. “It, the Monster, showed up at my dad's when I was working on his house.” His voice wavers. “Dad had all these model planes, and we smashed most of them. There were moments when it smiled, or laughed, that I could believe it was you.” 

“Fuck.” Eliot lets go of Quentin's hand to rub the bridge of his nose. “Q, I.” 

“It's not your fault, Eliot.” 

“Au contraire. Where we are now is the very definition of my fault.” Eliot rubs his hands along the lids of his eyes, collecting drops of moisture that shine on the pads of his fingers. “I grew up in rural Indiana, then moved to New York for school. Then moved here when my life got so complicated that something had to change.” 

“Where did you go to school?” Quentin's mouth quirks in a hint of a smile, continuing their game. 

“A private grad school upstate. Brakebills, I doubt you've ever heard of it.” Quentin's smile widens. 

“No joke? Me too! We must have been in different years!” They both laugh. Eliot lays his arm down on the table, forearm up, and grins when Quentin's thumb brushes the inside of his wrist. “Small world, right?” 

“Too small. Is it my turn?” Eliot tries to think of a softball question. “What was the last TV show you watched?” 

“I've been watching a lot of stuff on Netflix; I hear they picked up the rights to the Fillory books and are planning a show.” 

“They'll never get it right. It's too damn weird!” They share a secret smile. “Great British Baking Show,” Eliot answers his own question, then stirs his coke and sips it as he waits for Quentin's. He doesn't have a lot of time for TV, and there's a methodical precision to baking that delights him. Josh loves that they have something in common, and Margo complains that the two of them are making her fat. 

“Do you like to cook? Because I burn water.” Eliot knows that's not entirely true. Quentin had learned a lot about cooking once they'd had Teddy. 

“I love to bake, but I very much doubt that you're a complete lost cause in a kitchen. Favorite band?” 

“Everything is better with Bowie.” 

“Bowie is good, Tom Waits, I like a lot of things. Are you an only child?” 

“Yup. You?” Eliot holds up three fingers. 

“Three strapping brothers, all of them multiple sport athletes.” 

“Did you play any sports?” 

“I tried out for football at my dad's insistence... It makes the list of worst mistakes I've ever made.” Thinking about his memory board makes a lump form in Eliot's throat. The waitress brings their orders, and Eliot picks through the layers of salsa, cheese, and egg for the bits of spicy chorizo. They eat in silence until she returns with refills of his coke and Quentin's coffee. Eliot smiles as he watches Quentin soak his pancakes through with butter and blueberry syrup. “Favorite fruit?” 

“Peaches.” Quentin's eyes fix on the mountain of half-finished semi-circles in front of him. 

“Plums.” There's a pause where they chew in silence, but little smiles are tugging at the corners of their mouths. 

“Have you ever met anyone famous?” Eliot laughs aloud at that one. 

“Baby, I've rubbed elbows with royalty!” 

“Oh, fancy. I met the author of my favorite books and realized what a colossal waste of humanity he was. If you could travel the world, would you?” 

“There are places I want to go, but only if I don't have to go alone.” Eliot twirls his fork through the strings of cheese, then brings the bite to his mouth. 

“Would you go back?” 

“Maybe, but only if they'll let Margo be king. For now, my life is here. I'm still struggling with a lot of shit. What's your worst habit? I smoke, and have been trying to stop.” 

“Letting my anxiety cast doubt on my decisions. I started seeing a therapist, and we're working to find the best prescription to help me.” 

“That's great, Q; I'm really proud of you! I... I started seeing somebody too. Henry helped set me up with someone who specializes in magically induced PTSD.” Their attention turns back to the food in front of them. The tension seems to build for a moment.

“What was it like?” Eliot drags his fork in crisscrossing rows through the pile of hashbrowns. The little bit of ketchup he'd added reminds him of bloody scratches on skin. It was hard to talk about, especially after the one thing that had kept him going hadn't panned out. 

“I was trapped in my memory, an endless bleed between one happy scenario and the next. I guess the idea was that I'd get lost in the best moments and not try to fight back, and I did for a while. The cycle broke when the consciousness of the monster's last host, the one I shot, found me and helped me realize it was all fake.”

“I'm glad you didn't see through its eyes. You have no idea how glad I am that you weren't helplessly watching.”

“It messed me up when I found out nothing was real. To get that moment in the park, I had to slog through my worst memories to find the door that would let me have control again. Then I had to wait for you guys to get me out and my senses started to warp. I lost the ability to remember textures and my sense memories started blending.” His hands drop to his thighs, and Eliot drags his palms along the coarse fabric. Quentin looks stricken.

“If there's anything I can do; El... I should have been here!” 

“It's not nearly as bad as it was. Therapy helped, is helping. Ask something else, something lighter. Please?” Quentin makes himself a fresh cup of coffee before he responds. 

“Favorite cartoon show when you were a kid?” 

“My parents didn't want to pay for cable, so we had all of these 'classic cartoon' DVD's, the ones with a hundred old cartoons all strung together. I grew up on the classics. My brother would pop one in when he had to babysit and leave me to it. And Disney movies, I loved Disney. I liked to sing, and my dad hated it”

“I bet you have an amazing voice. Have you ever been married?” It's a question that's supposed to be about their relationship during the mosaic, but the question brings his marriage with Fen to mind first. 

“Twice.” Quentin's face twists in sympathy, and he starts to stutter an apology, but Eliot waves it off. He can talk about this; they have to talk about the hard things. “I met a girl, and in the moment I thought she could give me what I needed, but I married her for the wrong reasons, and we were miserable. I'm fortunate we got to be friends in the end.” 

“What about the second time?” 

“Sometimes it feels like a dream, and I'm not sure it happened. Other moments the memories are so clear and detailed and perfect that they hurt. I love that man with everything I can give him, and I broke his heart.” 

“I've been married more than once too. Both of my partners changed my life in the best ways, but they hurt me too. Ari died, but she gave me Theo, and my husband was the most brilliant, sarcastic, and frustrating man I've ever met.” Quentin plows on with the next question before Eliot has time to think up one of his own. “What's the worst advice you've ever given someone?” Eliot wonders if Quentin planned some of these, or if he's coming up with them on the fly. 

“Telling the love of my life to go be life-partners with someone else. I was scared; I didn't think we could be happy.” Eliot digs a forkful of egg free from the corner of his omelet, then drags it through the pool of ketchup. The question he's been building towards feels like a heavy weight on his shoulders. 

“Tell me what happened with the last relationship you were in. How did it start? Why did it end?” 

“I...” Quentin's eyes roll up towards the ceiling, and he blinks away tears. “I wasn't going to let her back into my life after the keys, El. Then she showed up with my book from the library and told me I was supposed to die in that park on the day you broke through. She saved me; then I made her leave because none of us wanted anything to do with her. We weren't going to forgive her. Then somehow she got involved with the hedge witches, and Kady, and then she was trying to help Julia get her powers back.” Quentin sniffs, and Eliot casts a handful of subtle charms under the table to make sure they aren't noticed or interrupted. “That thing, it... wore me down; it kept coming up with creative ways that it was going to kill you. All I cared about was getting you back, so we helped it kill gods to save you, but the whole time it knew it was never going to give you up. It used you as leverage against us because it was smart enough to realize how much we loved you.” Quentin pushes his plate aside to have room to rest his elbows on the table, then uses his forearms to shield his face. 

“Q...” Eliot slides out of his side of the booth, then in beside Quentin. He rests one hand on Quentin's back and the other on the smaller man's thigh. A sob shakes Quentin, and he drops one arm so they can see one another. 

“We thought we were building a body for it; then you got to tell Penny about the sister. It was never going to let you go, Eliot. I didn't have any hope left, and then Margo showed up with her axes and those binding bottles. Alice and I went to Mayakovsky to figure out how to make an incorporate bond. We found him, but he'd fucked up some time magic spell, and we had to use a version of it to talk to him in the past.” Quentin swallows, then wipes at his eyes with both hands before folding them in his lap; one of them finds its way into Eliot's. “I saw Alice right at the point we were falling for one another, tender and sweet, untainted by Fillory, Plover, the emotion bottles, her time as a niffin.”

“So you fell for her again.” Eliot clarifies.

“I fell for the idea of her, for what we represented, the innocence of it. She still wanted to be with me, and you... you rejected that. You wouldn't even give us a chance!” Eliot draws his hands back and wraps them around his middle as his eyes fix on Quentin's empty plate. The familiar self-hate he's been struggling to bury manifests in the form of hot tears that blur his vision. 

“I made a mistake.” He doesn't implore Quentin to understand or sympathize, because the anger has no direction but inward. “I was scared it would all fall apart, and I wouldn't even have you as a friend. I had to relive it, the moment in the throne room. I got a front row seat, a spectator's view, of the moment I crushed your heart into pieces. I hate myself for that, Quentin. I can never take back what I did, for lying to you at that moment. The only condolence I could give myself was promising to tell you the truth when I got out. I didn't know Alice would be right there when it happened.” 

“We are good at hurting one another, aren't we?” Quentin whispers. 

“The best. Fifty years of practice.”

“I did; I do love her Eliot.” Quentin turns his head, so their gazes meet. “But it's different than how I love you. She and I found happiness under circumstances that were forced, but you're my best friend, my soulmate, my partner. We have fifty years of shared experience. Alice wouldn't have wanted to talk about the family I had outside of my relationship with her. I couldn't even find a way to start the conversation to try and tell her about it.” 

“She was waiting in my apartment when I got home from work to try and get me to start a polyamorous relationship with the two of you.” 

“Jesus H. Fucking Christ.” Quentin's hands rub at his eyes in disbelief, and Eliot wraps one arm around him. 

“I told her no. I loved Ari, Q, but I won't do it with Alice.” 

“No, there's no way it would work!” He laughs, and Eliot relaxes a little when Quentin leans into his hold. “God that would be a disaster.” 

“Yeah.” Quentin's hair is so soft under his cheek. Eliot wants to tip his chin and kiss him but decides that in the tradition of the evening he's not giving anything up on a first date. 

“I wanted to help you recover, and neither of you would let me close. Alice and I are different people than we were at Brakebills South and there wasn't enough good chemistry to make us work.” 

“You and I are different people too. This won't be the last time we hurt each other.” 

“I know, I know. God, how did we get here?" Quentin's voice wavers. "I want to make this work, Eliot. Can we make this work?” 

“I want it too.” Quentin relaxes into his embrace and Eliot closes his eyes. There is a high chance that they are opening themselves to a world of pain, and Margo is going to have more than her share to say, but he wants this. “I missed you, Q.” He whispers as they cling to one another. His nose buries in Quentin's hair, and he drowns in the smaller man's scent as the lenses of his glasses fog over. If he hadn't lived through how wonderful it could be he wouldn't be sure that it was worth trying.

**Author's Note:**

> Next part soon! Thanks for the continued support.


End file.
